I Ain't 'Fraida No Copyrights
by Frosty Autumn
Summary: Deadpool has decided to pursue the field of Private Eye work. Because. He's got a spinny chair, a super important looking desk, a neato trenchcoat to hang on a fancy coat rack, and a brand spankin' new office. He's also got a new house pest who turns out to be more of an annoyance than anything. Because she can't die either. They never mentioned that in the lease...
1. Deadpool: Private Eye

**I lied. I am afraid of copyrights. Anything you recognize does not belong to me.**

 **As per current iterations, Deadpool has two main voices in his head. The one in bold is the more (usually) rational one, the** _italics_ **one is his more excitable, chaotic side. Some inspiration from the comics, some from the video game.**

 **Rated M for strong language, and violence (did you expect any less of Deadpool?)**

* * *

The place still smelled new. Like sawdust and paint thinner, with just a hint of chemical fumes.

 **[Give it time.]**

 _[Yeah. When we're done with it, this place will have permanently absorbed the greasy stink of tacos and chimi's to last decades. We should get some take-out to break it in.]_

"In due time, boys, in due time," answered Deadpool smoothly. Carrying a cardboard box in his arms, he stood on the threshold of his brand new Private Eye office, ink still wet on a freshly signed lease.

Peachy-pink light, courtesy of a setting sun, filtered through slats in the plastic Venetian window shades, casting stripes over his new, pristine mahogany desk. The tall-backed leather chair sat in shadow, displaced slightly to the right as if someone had vacated the seat and didn't wheel it back in.

"All we need is a grey filter and some atmospheric slow jazz, and we're set."

 _[Some sexy, smoky-voiced honeys in evening dresses and mink coats wouldn't be so bad either.]_

 **[I've always said you looked exactly like Humphrey Bogart.]**

"Oh, stop," gushed Deadpool. He set his box on the desk, contents rattling upon contact. This was going to be great. Why didn't he think of this before? His conscience had been feeling just a little bit heavier as of late. Maybe offering some other helpful services besides popping caps into people's brains for a little bit would make that pesky thing go away. It was a worse nagger than Cable. Cable!

And there was also the delicious fact that rich people never liked to air their dirty laundry out in public. Bad for reputations. That was where Deadpool came in. Discreet would be his middle name. Wade Discreet Wilson. Catchy. He mentally noted to put that on the business card. And a motorcycle. Motorcycles were badass. Richies would be throwing themselves at his feet for solving their Scooby Doo mysteries and be so grateful for keeping his mouth shut that they'd pay _double._

 _[So does that mean we aren't a gun for hire anymore?]_

"Hey, hey, we're still in the merc game," assured Deadpool, pulling out a framed photograph of a scowling Wolverine. "If certain clients need me to do something a little extra, and show us some additional sweet ka-ching on the side, how can we say no?" He set up the flap stand and placed the picture on the desk, next to an old-fashioned rotary telephone (supplied per his request). And he stopped there for the evening. Setting up was hard work.

The office was some pretty sweet digs, he had to admit. It was only a squat, brown, one-level building stuck inbetween two high-rise apartments downtown, but a fine piece of real estate nonetheless. Inside the entry door was the main walk-in office he was standing in now—he mentally noted to add some semi-comfortable vinyl chairs, a water dispenser, and a tasteful fern in the corner later—and a backroom that sectioned off into smaller storage rooms. One would be his new bedroom. Why pay for an apartment and an office at the same time when you could technically live and work in one?

He took a gander at his workspace. Sweet, there was even an old-fashioned banker's lamp with the green shade on the desk. Deadpool grabbed the hanging ball-chain and switched it off and on.

"We are oh-fficially legit," he announced, tugging the chord again. Click.

Click, click...

...clickclickclickclickclickclickclick _._

 _[Can't wait 'till we start raking in the dough! How are we going to keep up with so many clients?]_

"That's what Bob's for. I'll appoint him our secretary when things get a little too much for us to handle. I even found the perfect beehive wig for him."

He took a second to fix Wolverine who had fallen flat on his grouchy face.

Lowering his cushy tushy into the plush leather chair, Deadpool took a moment to survey the entire room in a Don-like demeanor, very pleased. How could things possibly get any better.

 _Oh. My. God. This chair spins!_

* * *

 **A/N: I told myself I'd never have two or more stories going at the same time ever again. But my current other one is a long time in the making, I'm stuck on the other, and I just needed to get this one out pronto. I've never written for a character quite like Deadpool, though I am a fan and read a number of his comics. Without visuals, it's quite a challenge. Hopefully I can get this right. In-character is key for me. But I don't consider myself the epitome of perfection at it, I will inevitably slip up, and that's where you the reader (yes, you right there. I see you watchin' me) come in. Whip me into shape, don't accept anything less than the best from me! I'm counting on you. Godspeed, reader *salute***


	2. Who You Gonna Call? Someone Else

After a cramped sleep between two filing cabinets, Deadpool back-cracklingly shuffled into his main office space at the crack of dawn, rubbing his stiff neck. " _Ermph_ , feels like that night we spent with that contortionist in Romania."

 **[You mean the one with the beard?]**

 _[From what I recall, she had two...]_

"Yeah, but boy could that freak ever bend..." Deadpool recalled wistfully.

Taking time to fix Wolverine's fallen picture again, he surveyed the space proudly, his new domain. All was as it should have been.

Except that the landlord obviously forgot to turn on the heating.

 _[Geez! It's colder than your ex in here!]_

"No kiddin'. My nips could cut through Emma Frost right now!"

Deadpool crossed the room for the thermostat on the wall beside the front door. Before he could flip up the little plastic casing shield, something clattered behind him. On instinct, he drew a katana from his back with an operatic _SHING_ and whirled around in his favorite badass stance. The room was empty. Nothing out of the ordinary. Scanning his office carefully, that was when he noticed the picture on his desk toppled over.

"Goddammit, Logan," he whined, sheathing the katana before marching over. "Don't get me all excited like that."

 _[Cheap manufacturing these days, am I right?]_

Deadpool fiddled with the flap stand and smartly set it down again. He pointed a finger admonishingly at Wolverine's sneering mug while backing away. "You stay. Stay!" Satisfied that the frame remained upright after a few seconds, Deadpool returned to the thermostat. "Alrighty, let's see here..." he muttered, checking for the problem.

 **[...You seein' what I'm seein'?]**

"Yeah. Damn thing's busted."

The thermostat digital reader was displaying a very comfortable room temperature. But just like hips, air don't lie.

CLACK.

"Oh, for Stan's sake," Deadpool groaned, lolling his head back fussily. Back to the desk he went, wrestling with the flap stand and slapping it into place. "Remind me never to accept a gift from Reed again. Looks like Mr. Fantastic's too busy investing in Just For Men to spring for a decent frame."

 **[If by gift you mean that you nicked it off his desk.]**

 _[And took Sue's picture out of it.]_

"I did him a favor. Just look at this shit tier quality!"

The frame wasn't the most important dilemma on his dossier, though, so Deadpool left it alone for the moment. He turned around with the intent to put his new detective skills to the test: solving The Mystery of the Thermostat (c).

However, by turning around, he discovered that he wasn't as alone as he first thought. Beside the thermostat there appeared to be a smoky smudge that wasn't there before, hovering just in front of the office door. And it was moving. Pacing and wandering aimlessly in the entranceway was something Deadpool could describe as nothing else but a ghost. Really!

She was clearly a woman, and clearly clear. Well, semi-clear. There was a foggy, washed-out sheen to her overall image. Her clothes were in pale colors, and he at least knew for sure that he could see the green outline of his office fern straight through her sternum.

"...You think Kurt's got some extra holy water lying around?" Deadpool muttered.

The figure appeared to be in a bizarre state, like she was lost.

Her hair, which was styled in a blond bob, bluntly cut off just beneath the ear lobes. Muddy roots streaked the parting at the peak of her head, giving away her secret. Her overplucked half-moon eyebrows were rounded, acting like little umbrellas over her squinty, flat, blue eyes. Her lavender tank top was partially covered by an unbuttoned, dark denim jacket. Roomy, insulated, white track pants completed the lower half. Nylon polyester blend, most surely.

Deadpool would have noticed all of these if he hadn't been concentrating on the modest little peek of midriff at her belt line. Tease.

"Another hallucination, guys?" he wondered aloud.

 _[Hey, don't look at us! We ain't doing that.]_

Weird. In that case, there was only one thing to do, then. Deadpool cleared his throat for attention. The apparition, or whatever she was, wasn't listening. Didn't even perk up her transparent head. She continued to pace pensively, arms crossing and then uncrossing, watching the floorboards.

"Ah-HEM," Deadpool coughed a little louder. He itched to just shoot a bullet through her to signal her attention (it'd just go right through her anyway and effectively do the job), but that door was made of the fancy stuff. Real wood, real varnish, real everything! If a new pinhole was going to zing right through it, there was going to be a damn good reason.

The mystery guest halted mid-walk in her tracks, alerted by Deadpool's throat-clearing. Almost curiously, she met his eyes sidelong.

"Hey. How's it goin'?" greeted Deadpool, with a casual flick of the wrist.

The ghost stiffened. Instead of answering what most would consider a fairly innocuous question, especially considering she was technically a trespasser, she peeked over her shoulder uncertainly at the office door, like Deadpool was speaking to someone past her.

"No, no, I'm talkin' to you," he confirmed.

The ghost's hair fanned out sharply as she swivelled back. Her beady eyes enlarged, every bit the picture of bafflement, and honed in on him. There was also dash of suspicion, one which Deadpool thought he didn't deserve.

Her lips were parting. "You...you can see me?" Her voice was so whispery and frail.

"Am I not supposed to?" Deadpool looked side to side briefly. "You're not exactly Sue Storm level right now. Probably more Semi-Invisible Woman."

The ghost marched forward in a rush, effectively closing the distance between the duo, bending pleadingly at the waist like she was suddenly overcome with a stomach ache. "No. _No_ , say it again," she begged, voice airy and low. "I have to know. Can. You. See. Me?"

"...What, you didn't believe me the last time?"

The ghost's posture twitched upright, pin-straight, a reaction based purely on the fact that the response Deadpool threw her was personalized. She covered her mouth, stricken. Then, she lowered it slowly in near disbelief. "You're the first person to ever notice me," she said waveringly. "I-I don't know how long I've been wandering." Suddenly, faster than Deadpool could say personal space, she swooped in closer, now a manic apparition departed from the melancholy mood Deadpool found her in. "Please. I need your help," she said.

"Uh huh. So...are we talking Casper, or the head-spinning pea-soup puke combo?"

"Pardon?"

"Just figuring out what I'm dealing with here."

The ghost's apprehensive expression lost some edge. She blinked once blankly. "I mean you no harm, if that's what you mean."

"I've been told that before. Hold on a second...yes, I know, this went a lot better in rehearsal...she earns negative two points for the snaggle tooth, sure..."

Ghost Girl narrowed her eyes questioningly at Deadpool's rambling. There was no malice in her gaze (currently), but there was maybe just a controlled hint of subdued bafflement. The fact that Deadpool wasn't even looking at her despite the two of them being the only ones in the room spurred her to ask, "Who are you talking to?"

"My advisors."

"Advisors."

"Shh, shh, shh. We're in a meeting." He returned to his nonsensical blabbering at nothing. "...the cost alone to get rid of her would drain half our budget! You think Pest Control has a manual on this kind of infestation?"

The ghost straightened importantly. "Excuse me. Sir?" she interrupted, motioning to tap his shoulder but reminded herself how futile the gesture would be. "If I could put that...meeting on hold for a moment, I haven't got much time to waste. You mentioned your profession as a private investigator. I've actually been meaning to bring that up with you. If that's the case, you're looking at your first client." It wasn't just a statement, it was a bold declaration. A confident one at that.

Deadpool went silent. "...Excusez moi?"

"You heard me."

Whatever skittishness the woman displayed beforehand had evaporated. She stood with her arms akimbo over her hips, a sign that she was now impatient for a reply. Deadpool felt her pompousness was very undeserved. He was reminded of a nerd suddenly bestowed a six-month gym membership.

"Maybe she didn't understand me," muttered Deadpool, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. He snapped his fingers rapidly, as if fighting to recall something. Eyes alight, he instantly rediscovered what he'd mentally been searching for. "Ah. Perdão?"

"What?" She appeared honestly perplexed.

"извините?" Deadpool tried again.

The ghost squinted, lost for words.

"Oh, I'm _sorry_." Deadpool delicately spread his fingers over his heart in a dramatized, apologetic manner. "I was unaware you were speaking English, it almost sounded like you said you wanted to be my first client."

His otherworldly guest's eyes shifted like her point had completely sailed over his head. "Uh...yes?"

"Uh huh. 'Scuse me." Clutching the edges of his desk, Deadpool plopped himself onto its surface, crossing his ankles and spritely swinging them. He snatched the desk calendar right beside him and started flipping the pages, utterly absorbed in its contents. "Mm-hm, mm-hm, yes, oh, definitely not there, mm-hm, nope, the fifteenth won't work, candlelit dinner with Rogue, I can't cancel that again, nope, not there either, nope, nope times infinity—oooh, _definitely_ not there." He then tossed the calendar over his shoulder, tilted his head sideways exaggeratedly, and shrugged with a struck-stupid expression that nobody could possibly see through the mask. "Sorry, babe, I'm booked solid! Can't help you."

"There aren't any marks on that calendar. And it's dated 2010."

"...No it's not."

"I sense unwillingness from you. I don't see what the problem is."

"...You seriously being serious right now?"

Ghost Girl crossed her arms again, impassable.

Deadpool sighed impatiently. "Look, lady, it's like this. You can't just suddenly appear in my pad willy-nilly, do-whatever-you-please, and expect me to listen to you. I'm running a legit business here. Look." He pointed emphatically at his workspace. "I've got a _desk_. I have no time to be chasing strange things in the neighborhood, you're gonna have to call someone else for that. I only deal with those made of flesh and blood. You wanna know why?"

Spooksalot stared blankly.

"I'll tell you why," Deadpool interjected before she had the chance to, "'cause flesh and blood is clothed in skin, skin is usually clothed in pants, pants tend to have pockets, and some of these pockets carry very fat wallets. You see what I'm sayin' here?"

" _Surprisingly_ , no," she replied, a certain stinginess overcoming her.

Deadpool slumped. He hopped off his desk and glanced out of the office window, distantly contemplative. "Out of all the detective joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine."

"What?"

"Sorry, outloud. I do that sometimes, you'll get used to it. Wait, what am I saying?" He pointed to the exit behind her. " _Out_. Sorry for you being dead and all, but tough break, your name isn't on the lease. So unless you can somehow pay rent, you can't squat at my place."

"But you're a private detective aren't you?"

Deadpool's posture straightened proudly. "Sure am. Has my reputation preceded me?"

"I overheard you," she said flatly, none-too-pleased with his lack of professionalism. "I've heard everything you've said since you came here."

"...Could you put in a good word for me to your undead friends, then? I mean undead as in actually alive, not undead as in zombies or vampires or-"

"Enough!"

Deadpool raised his palms in surrender. "Whoa, jeez, okay, okay, calm down."

A spark of hope brightened her eyes. "So you'll help me, then?"

"What? I never agreed to that. Look, babe, I'm sure you're a swell chick and all, deserves her justice, never meant for this to happen, went too soon, blah blah blah, but this is way out of my jurisdiction. Your body having recently..."—his eyes roved her over from top to bottom—"...expired...kind of negates your existence from the law's point of view."

 _[You been talking to She-Hulk lately?]_

 **[Quiet!]**

"I have everything to give you, and you've got nothing to give me, is what I'm saying," he explained further. "So you see how this exchange isn't beneficial to my new 75"inch plasma screen T.V. with subwoofer and surround sound hook-up? So, to wrap things up, door's right there, Heaven's up there, see ya." He motioned a short, dismissive wave and carried on rummaging through his box, turning his back on her scandalized face.

It got awfully quiet back there.

 _[Ah, she'll be fine. A little tough love never hurt anyone.]_

 **[Like your dad's form of tough love?]**

 _[Burn!]_

"I can pay you," she said evenly from behind him. Judging by the distance of sound, she hadn't moved.

"Not listenin'. You think I'm dumb enough to go along with your plan, just so that you can split town before you tell me where your treasure is buried? Get real, dead sister."

The ghost quieted again. Unaffected, Deadpool got back to work rearranging his leftover supplies. _The nerve. Comin' in here like she owns the place._

Now, did the silver-ball clacky thing look better on the desk, right in client's immediate line of sight, or did it look more distinguished to place it on the shelf behind the leather chair? Within sight but not too blatant. Tasteful, but not boastful.

The office was cold, there was no doubt about that. But the chill creeping all the way down in the very bones of Deadpool's arms was achingly cold. Frigid. But airy like a breeze. A very similar sensation was hovering near his left ear.

The ghost's voice intoned low and grim, "Then I have no choice but to possess you,"

"Whoa, whoa, wait, what?"

Without invite, without even time for protest, the ghost leaned forward, entering into Deadpool's muscled back through the valley between his shoulders. He whooped and jumped as he felt his elbow joints stiffen instinctively. An emerging, icy tingle in his fingertips was gradually ascending to his heart. Then, the cold invaded his chest cavity in a spreading rush. The sensation was heavy, like an empty cavern filling with concrete. The intruding spirit melded into his body, partially disappeared inside.

"Hey, hey, whoa, easy, let's talk about this for a minute. If you wanted me inside you, all you had to do was- _HRK_!". It was as though someone flipped a switch in his body. One that shut down his entire nervous system. His sense of consciousness felt floaty, his head was the only thing he was aware of.

"Now, listen here," warned a threatening voice in his head. A female one for once.

 _[Hey, who's she?]_

 **[Someone new in here? Aren't you going to introduce us?]**

"Excuse me?" came the ghost's voice again, her tone suddenly less intimidating; more like intimidated now. "Who is this?"

"Oh yeah, forgot to tell you before you so politely barged in, Spookerella," said Deadpool, rolling his eyes up as though the party was going on in his forehead, "you've got company in there."

 _[Finally! We get to be part of the action. Can we touch her, Wade?]_

 **[And smell her hair just a little?]**

 _[Even though we have no sensory organs or orifices?]_

 **[Please? Being abstract concepts and symptoms of insanity, we don't get to do much.]**

Deadpool's commandeered hand slapped him smartly in the face. "Make them stop!" the ghost's voice demanded.

"Ow." He wanted to rub his cheek, but there was no possible way, it wasn't his anymore. His arm may as well have been chopped off. Again. "No can do, boo. They kind of come pre-installed with the complete Deadpool set, no refunds, returns, or exchanges. Sorry notsorry."

"Until you say yes, I'm not leaving!"

 _[Oh, you're gonna have a great time in here, you'll see!]_

 **[We'll rearrange the furniture and drop some memories to make space for you.]**

 _[First bicycle? Out you go! First contract kill? Who needs that?!]_

 **You seem like the surly, no-nonsense type** — _Do we still need to know how to file taxes?_ — **God knows we need a voice of reason to ignore** — _passcode to Avengers Tower_ — **certain areas needing attention** — _are you a summer or a winter?_ — **broker in some sort of system** — _advice, stay away from_ — **organization** — _done in no time flat_ — **par for the course, of course** — _but you'll get used to_ — **the X-Men—** _bare-assed while skiing—_ **some sort of mind-control ray—** _apple strudel recipe—_

"Stop it! STOP IT!" the female voice screeched in his skull.

All at once, Deadpool sensed an acute awareness of his skeleton, muscles, and the blood coursing through them again. His body temperature let up a few degrees, and that numb feeling was leaving, exiting steadily out through his back.

Once fully released, he braced himself over the desk. A shudder crawled all the way up his spine. He snapped out his arms now that he could control them again, shaking her presence off as though some slimy residue had been left behind. "Hoo!" he exclaimed, chattering. "Refreshing." He shook his head as if he'd surfaced from an icy plunge, humming like a motorboat to warm his vocal chords.

Dearly Undeparted rounded on him, looking as though she too had shaken the leftovers of her experience off. "What the hell is _wrong_ with you?!" Repulsion and legit curiosity rolled into one question.

Despite the most unwelcome bodily intrusion, Deadpool remained cool as a cucumber. "Nothing. Well, if you count the months of torture. And the voices. Plus the _radical_ healing factor."

Ghoulie swiftly held up a hand. "No more. Just...no more. The less you say, the better right now," she warned testily.

"Well exyoooose me, princess, thought you'd want to get to know me better considering you just slithered in and took over."

In response, she glared at him. Hard.

"Uh-uh, that attitude ain't gonna fly with me, missy," sassed Deadpool, placing a hand on his hip and wagging an indignant finger at her. "You honestly think I'm gonna help you now after that little stunt? Tough luck. If you can't handle me at my worst then you certainly don't deserve me at my best."

 _[We so need to put that on our Facebook.]_

"I still have the ability to haunt you," the ghost reminded, though she didn't sound as completely confident as before. Her advantage level was sliding down, becoming more and more on par with her adversary.

"Big deal, I know a guy who could exorcise your polterass in ten seconds flat."

"I'm not malevolent, I mean no harm."

"Says the chick who just decided to turn me into a marionette for kicks."

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry. I won't do it again," she contended, gesturing calmly with her hands. "Just...please. I'm asking you for a favor. I've been wandering for a long time. A long time. No one's acknowledged me, no one's even indicated that they could see or hear me. No one until you. You're the only hope I have. Help me?"

Something changed within her snotty demeanor. Like she'd finally given in to the cold her ethereal body was radiating. But her change had nothing to do with temperature. It looked as though years of exhaustion and sadness had finally caught up with her. She looked forlorn. Desperate.

Deadpool had pride in the fact that he was a hunky man not easily swayed by a face, whether pretty, pathetic, or otherwise—

 _[Damn right!]_

—but for the first time since meeting the ghost, there was something sincere in her voice.

Still, a situation alone was not enough to entice him to sign on, not without some heavy moolah to make it worth his while. That was why he initiated this whole new one-man endeavor in the first place. When he first started his new Private Eye agency, he expected something a little more mundane, to say the least. Wayward husbands, insurance fraud, skipped bail (he noted to also add Bounty Hunter to his business card when he had the chance). Not some demanding talking fog who wanted him to play Sherlock Holmes for her benefit.

 _[Well, she's no sexy femme fatale like in the film noir's.]_

 **[More like the sickneningly cute-as-a-button lollipop lickers with Shirley Temple curls.]**

 _[Or barely-legal jailbait teenpop star.]_

 **[Or Stylish Twenty-Something Barbie.]**

Deadpool groaned. "How much?" he grumbled through gritted teeth.

"Huh?"

"How much?" he reluctantly stated more clearly. "As in, how much are you willing to pay?"

 _[Oh, oh, tell her to pay us in Ecto-Cooler! Haven't seen that shit in years.]_

 **[Shut up, we're negotiating.]**

"Does that mean you'll take me on?"

"Hold your apocalyptic horsemen, I'm not taking on your case _yet_. I ain't doin' this for free, so we're gonna find out whether this is worth my while. What have you got for me?"

If he was going to take her on, something good had to better come out of it. Something worth putting up with her undead shit. Fleshies were easy; they were controllable, they were trackable, and they were cautious because they had something to lose. Moreover, last Deadpool checked, money was non-transferable to the spirit realm. If she couldn't pay up—which there was a high likelihood of—he'd have a better, more solidified reason to refuse and finally shake her off. Freebies were a no go.

"Everything I have," the ghost stated firmly, some (after)life returning to her eyes. "I hid a box somewhere. Nobody else knew about it. Twenty-thousand in cash."

"Tweh-tweh-tweh...tweh-tweh-tweh..." Deadpool wheezed gluttonously.

"Help me solve my murder and it's all yours. Every last bit of it, I swear. I will tell you exactly where the box is the second this is all over."

Deadpool's knees knocked as he sank a few inches. Mentally slapping himself, he snapped out of his moneylust state. Twenty grand wasn't even _close_ to the typical introductory asking price of private investigators! Still, he needed to play it cool. Hold out for more, maybe? Hey, she was dead, it wasn't like any of her possessions were going with her.

He straightened and cleared his throat importantly, adjusting a necktie that wasn't there. "Well, that's a start," he said. "But let's be honest, it's not everyday a private eye takes on a client from beyond the grave. Detective work involves hours of tailing perps. Research! Not to mention how much I'd have to drop on surveillance equipment, I mean—"

"A gold rolex, 14-carat diamond ring, pure pearl earrings," the ghost added desperately, "even the sapphire bracelet my dad gave me for my birthday. You can have them _all_."

A dark, wet stain was expanding on the blank mouth of Deadpool's mask. "Ohh," he muttered faintly, gripping the edge of his desk for support. "Ohh, I think I'm going to orgasm..."

 **[Hold up, hold up. Before you prematurely blow your load, this dame's load could be bullshit. How'd she get to be so loaded?]**

Deadpool recovered and held up a finger. "My advisor brings up an excellent point. How do I know you're not making all of these up? You got an original Picasso and The Heart of the Ocean to throw in there, too?"

"My parents have money. A lot of it."

"And how can I confirm that?"

"I...I can't. Not like this." She opened her arms, briefly looking down at her wispy form. The hope in her eyes was draining. "You'll just have to trust me."

 _[Ooo, tick one for the 'dubious' column.]_

"I'm gonna need some sort of deposit, ghostbabe. As a show of trust. You know how it is."

"But I can't bring anything to you. I can't carry objects, I've tried. I'd have to tell you where these things are. And look, I need a power play, too. How do I know you're even a real Private Investigator, hm?" She looked him up and down, as if Deadpool's get-up was only _now_ cause for suspicion. "I can't research your credentials, and you're certainly not dressed like one."

"How would you know how a P.I. dresses?"

"I don't think red and black onesies are standard uniform. For anybody."

"I'm a trendsetter."

"See? See, this is exactly what I'm saying, we're both at odds here! Maybe you don't trust me as far as you can throw me, but I'm kind of having trouble on my end, too. But the difference is that I realize that I need you."

"Oh yeah? And what makes you think that I need you?"

She crossed her arms impetuously like a stern mother requiring an explanation to her destroyed living room. "If you want to score a big pay day, you won't just need me, you'll be begging for me."

"Kind of like how you did back there a few minutes ago?"

Haunts'R'Us threw another piercing glare, one that Deadpool had grown so accustomed to in their short time together that he thought she should seriously find a way to patent it. "I do not _beg_ ," she asserted proudly.

"Mm-hm, sure, sure, whatever floats your ghost, honey." He noticed her foul, smoldering frown. "Ehh, come on, lighten up, you're alright." He bumped his fist playfully against her shoulder, temporarily neglectful to remember her bodily configuration; his knuckles plunged in about two inches through her denim jacket, meeting a pocket of sharp air. Ghost Girl looked down at his fist flatly. Raising her gaze back on him, she perked a _very_ unamused eyebrow.

"Erm, yeah," said Deadpool, removing his hand slowly, unclenching his fingers and shaking off the cold. "We'll...we'll make due with that."

"So?" demanded the ghost bluntly. "Do we have a deal or not?"

 _[Twenty-THOUSAND, dude! We don't even have to charge the hourly rate. That's like one case for the price of five! That's not even counting the extra, sparkly expenditures.]_

Though Deadpool felt very much inclined to the deal of taking on a dead chick's cold case if only for the rewards, he still wasn't happy about it. You let one client bully you and call the shots, it's all downhill from there.

 **[Look on the bright side. Think of how great this will look on your resume!]**

Ghostie, however, wasn't done yet. "Before we start, are you licensed?" she inquired.

 _Knew we forgot something..._ "Absolutely!"

"I know I can't sign any legal document..."

 _Score!_ "Don't worry, this is completely off the books, sweet thing."

"So you'll still do it?"

"As long as I get my money."

She placed one hand over her heart, the other in a scout salute. "I promise."

"Then you, my heartbeat-challenged friend, have got yourself a deal."

Holding out his red-clad hand, the two motioned a handshake to the best of their corporeal and non-corporeal abilities.

 _[This sucks! Our first client and we gotta work by the honour system?]_

 **[Did you just spell it as 'honour'?]**

 _[Uh, duh, 'course I did.]_

 **[Isn't it 'honor'?]**

 _[Dude, we're Canadian!]_

 **[Right. Sorry, it's hard to remember sometimes.]**

 _[It's the gun toting violence, isn't it? Throws everybody off.]_

* * *

 _ **A/N: 4 Favorites and 7 Alerts? Guys, I'm blushing!**_


	3. The Case of the Deceased Dame

"So...?"

"So what?"

Little Miss Kicked The Bucket paused for a confused beat. "I thought you were going to help me out?"

"Yeah."

"So shouldn't we get started?"

"Yeah."

Madam Pushing Up Daisies raised her brows expectantly. Deadpool watched her back. Hollow silence dragged.

"Now?" she said firmly.

"Oh, you mean _now_ now _._ "

"When did you think I meant?!"

Deadpool shrugged. "Iunno, I thought what's the rush, right? Not like we're chasing the clock until some schmoes down at the docks blow you sky high if they don't get their ransom of two thousand Polish sausages by midnight or else."

The ghost said nothing. Her brow fell heavy over her eyes. Deadpool wasn't sure if Saturday morning cartoons were just bleeding into his reality, matching human emotions with animated visual cues, but he could have sworn a subtle, rosy aura was beginning to radiate from her.

"But okay, sure, let's start now." Deadpool dusted off his hands in triumph. "And so concludes The Mystery of the Thermostat. Good job, team, we deserve this."

 _[I'll see you all at the victory party.]_

The tension in the ghost's shoulders lessened, but her anger was far from ebbing away. Not that Deadpool was at all concerned for her blood pressure. The hatches were battened down for now, at least.

"Well then?" she said.

"Well then what?"

"Aren't you going to ask me some questions?"

"Lady, we just met, I'm not all that interested in hiring a partner at this time. But if you bring in a resume—"

"I mean about my case," she said sternly. "That's what detectives do, don't they?"

 **[She's right, you know. It said so in the handbook.]**

"Fine, fine, fine," said Deadpool. Grabbing a metallic foldout chair from beside the cabinet near his desk, he snapped it out and stamped it on the hardwood. He sat down in a very loungey position, legs spread a little wider than polite company would deem acceptable. Reaching into one of the many belt pouches circling his waist, he pulled out a small coiled notepad and a pencil. Sitting and conducting the question process behind his exquisite desk would have only been a waste of the view, this girl was in no earthly condition to be jealous over it and fawn. "Proceed," he encouraged.

"I think it's counter-intuitive to question myself, don't you think?" she said sardonically. She remained in a standing position, given that chairs didn't do her much good these days. Still, she looked rather miffed that Deadpool had neglected to offer her one, even if she would have declined.

"Fine, we'll do it your way, then." Deadpool flipped the notepad's cover, which depicted yellow, cartoony creatures wearing blue suspenders and metallic goggles, and onto a fresh page, pencil at the ready.

 _[You got this, man. Those hours flipping through the P.I. handbook at the library are paying off!]_

 **[I clocked it in at fourteen minutes.]**

 _[You sure? Sure felt like hours when we got to the Consoling A Distraught Client procedure.]_

"Alright, some basic facts first," said Deadpool. "Name?"

"Candace Ohler."

His pencil wiggled actively. "Mm-hm. Mm-hm. Spell that for me."

"C-A-N-D-A-C-E, O-H-L-E-R"

"Age?"

"Pretty sure I was twenty-four."

"Where you from?"

"Born in Connecticut, moved with my parents to upstate New York when I was eight, lived there ever since."

"On a scale of single to married, how dateable would you have been?"

"Uh." She halted momentarily at the unorthodox wording of the question, but sought to keep the ball rolling. "I was single at the time, if that's what you mean. No children."

"Method of death?"

No answer.

Deadpool looked up from his MASH doodle. "Method of death?" he repeated.

Candace's eyes had grown distant. Her attention was focused on the floor, she was concentrating like she was fighting to recall something that wasn't there. Strain briefly scrunched her features, as though she almost had it. When she opened her eyes again, she evidently lost the thread. "That's the thing. I can't remember."

"Well, there's your problem."

"I'm aware of that, thank you very much," she countered sharply. "No, it's more than that, it's...I actually cannot remember. There was a lot of black, and then suddenly, I couldn't breathe."

"Yeah," Deadpool agreed, "being dead kinda does that to you."

"No, not like that. I mean that I was aware of it. Of not being able to breathe. Like, something was blocking my windpipe. And then soon I wasn't aware of it anymore." As if to help her think better, she started to pace. "You see, that's the issue I've had ever since I discovered I wasn't alive anymore. I need to know how it happened; why it happened to me."

"Any enemies? Loan sharks chomping at your heels? Those guys don't play around."

 **[I wonder what they did with our thumb...]**

Candace carefully considered the implication. "I don't think so," she said slowly, speaking at the same time as she was thinking. "My parents were wealthy, but I don't remember anybody really out to get us."

Deadpool, in a rare show if interest, peeked curiously over the notebook's coils. "Wealthy? How wealthy we talkin'? For the record, of course." He leaned the notebook closer to where his lips should have been, like he was almost about to bite the paper in anticipation.

"Is that really necessary information?"

Deadpool shrugged his shoulders exaggeratedly in response, brandishing his tools of the trade carelessly in the air. "Hey, if you don't want my help—"

"My dad and his assets were worth ninety million the last time I was alive. He's the CEO of Ohler Holdings Incorporated. Is that enough information, or do you need more? There's my mom who was most famous for winning the Miss Bikini Beach Contest 1974, and she later headed the charity sectors of my dad's company after they got married."

"Uh-huh. And...are there any photos to prove this preposterous claim?"

"Of my mom's charity work? I don't know about photos, but there's paperwork, although I don't understand how that'd be useful to you when you're trying to solve the problem to my situation."

"Nah, nah, not that one. The other detail."

"Of my mom winning—oh." Candace's cooperation was devolving into shrewdness once again. Her eyes narrowed displeasingly. "Oh, you're a disgusting creep, you know that?"

"So, that's a no on the photographs?" asked Deadpool, delaying procedure momentarily to give his ghostclient the time necessary to confirm or deny. She said nothing. "H'okay, moving on! Do you suspect foul play?"

Candace grimaced at the implication. "Well, it could be a possibility, I suppose. Ever since I...died," she said with difficulty, as though she hadn't come to terms with her demise yet, "it's gotten harder to remember certain details of my life. My memory's foggy. I still remember people who were important to me and were often present, but the day of my death? I have nothing. When I was conscious again, I didn't feel a thing and I was in this area of town. I feel like I can't leave. I'm drawn here. I have a theory that my body could be somewhere in this area of town, but I've searched over and over, I've combed through every alley, street corner, and abandoned lot, and I could never find it. I've been going in circles all this time."

"For how long?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

Deadpool scribbled onto his notebook, muttering to himself. "Older than the Titanic..."

"It hasn't been that long!" Candace protested. "Do you see me in a powdered wig and a corset?"

Deadpool's masked, white-out eyes flicked up at her. "No, but it couldn't hurt."

Candace's jaw dropped indignantly for a short span, then fury tightened her face again. "Why, you little—"

"Chill out, chill out, I ain't calling you a whale. You ever seen the push-up power on those things? I'm just sayin', you'd totally benefit."

If Candace still had the lung capacity to huff, Deadpool was sure she would have done so just then. "So I'm not fat, I'm flat, is what you're saying" she said sarcastically.

"Exactly!"

"Charming."

"I try."

"Look, I'm sure you're having goads of fun at my expense here, but if it's all the same to you, I'd rather hurry this whole process along and not spend an extra second longer with you than I have to."

 **[She's still not warming up to our winning personality. What are we missing?]**

 _[This one doesn't count, she's not alive enough to even sign up for the fan club membership. Our fan-favorite rep still holds up on a technicality!]_

"Ah, ah, ah, ghostie, play nice," chastised Deadpool. "Or Uncle Deady's not gonna sniff out your rotten little corpse for you and heroically put an end your lonely, eternal, people-less existence."

He made sure to hammer in those last, less enticing ramifications should she suddenly decide not to contribute to the case agreeably. The pay-out was just too delicious to pass up, Deadpool wasn't going to easily let her go, but he had to make it look like he was the one doing _her_ a favor.

Candace quieted, thus it appeared to be doing something to her. She crossed her arms guardedly over her chest and stared at the floor. A retort was clearly on her tongue, her chin was just rippling with effort to try and contain it, and so it stayed confined. Deadpool relished in a devious little spark of achievement. He was the one in charge now, and even she knew it.

"You will hold up to your promise, won't you?" she said carefully.

He held up a hand in a scout salute. "If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'."

Candace considered him carefully, biting her lip. "Okay then," she said heavily, like it was zapping her energy to act humble. "I'll try my best to cooperate with you."

"Thanks, doll. You're a real peach."

Candace frowned as though she thought she deserved a better response than that, but once again, she held her peace in and honoured their temporary accord.

"So!" said Deadpool, redirecting their conversation back on track, "wealthy, you said? We're talking soirées, debutantes, and other cheese-eating surrender monkey words like that?"

"That's a bit of an outdated view on higher income families." Fidgeting, Candace suddenly started picking at her fingernails. "But yes, we might have used the word 'soirée' before."

"Ohhh, so a country club Daddy's girl, huh?"

"It wasn't like that," Candace insisted, "Daddy didn't bring me to the country club _all_ the time, I didn't play croquet or horseride. To be honest, I hate both those things. I'm allergic to horses anyway."

Deadpool pressed his thumb and forefinger together, extending the pinkie exaggeratedly. "Well la-dee-dah, too good for croquet and horsies and quiche a la mode with extra whipped cream on top, are you?"

"Quiche is a meal pastry made from eggs, it isn't served with whipped cream."

"Well la-dee-dah, so Miss Priss knows all the ins and outs of fancy food, she's too good for take-out."

"I wasn't a stranger to fast-food places, I'll have you know."

"Well la-dee—"

"Enough already!" Candace jutted her hip and planted a hand on it, clutching her wispy, just-barely-off-white hair at the peak of her head. " _God,_ are we just going to keep going in circles like this?"

"Well, if you've got the time, I sure do."

" _Well_ ," she retorted, mimicking his tone, "I don't feel much like playing with you. Even if time's all I got, I'm really sick and tired of wasting it. When you don't have access to a calendar or watch, time starts to blend together. Weeks feel like days and months feel like years."

Deadpool was spiritlessly tapping the pencil on the notepaper, supporting his chin in one hand. "Hm, must suck," he muttered, disinterested.

Candace didn't seem to hear him. She shook her head pensively. "Do you have any idea what that's like?" she said, going quiet all of a sudden. "To experience forever?"

Her words struck a chord. Deadpool took pause and fell still. Unfolding a leg, he straightened in his chair and dropped his arm limply across his lap, watching Candace with an expression she couldn't quite place. Sympathy? Compassion?

"Now that you mention it," he said, "yeah, actually." Taking a moment to recline contemplatively in his chair, he looked to the ceiling and his eyes spaced out, as if he were recalling a far-off memory. "When your video is still buffering on Pornhub. Say no more. I've been there."

Candace didn't even act surprised. "Oh, good Lord," she groaned in defeat, bringing her hands to her forehead to rub away a non-existent headache—it had to be non-existent, technically she didn't have a real skull anymore. "And here I thought we were getting somewhere. I don't even know why I'm bothering. I should have known better the second I saw your ridiculous costume."

"Hey, I'm trying to relate here! We're building a good work relationship, I can feel us getting closer through our shared experiences already."

Candace stopped massaging her temple and her glower returned forcefully, the one that said she wasn't playing games.

"No?"

Candace's expression was screaming it.

"Okay, whatever, forget it." Deadpool responded by crossing one leg over the other in a professional pose. He gestured exaggeratedly, graciously sweeping out an arm. "Proceed."—

 _—ghostbitch._

"Just wait a minute now," Candace interjected.

Deadpool slumped and groaned, lolling his head over the back of his uncomfortable chair. "Ungh, what now?"

"What did you say your name was?"

Perking his head up, Deadpool watched her down the plane of his exquisitely toned chest, his pecs inflated by effortlessly crafted, rippling muscle that made all the ladies go, _Ooo!_ "I go by many names. The Merc With The Mouth. The Master of Disaster. The MC of Catastrophe. Asshole is also a common one." He struck a new, self-inflating pose. "But you? Just for you, for this special limited time offer, you get to call me Deadpool."

"Deadpool," she repeated flatly.

"I know, isn't it great? Good job, the accent's tricky, but you got it down pat. You're a fast learner, kid."

"Don't patronize me."

 _[Yeesh. Buzzkill much?]_

"Whatever," Candace continued impatiently, waving her hand in dismissal. "Call yourself Tony Stark for all I care, I just want to—"

"Already tried that last year."

"Pardon?"

"Yeah. Had to drop off keys at the Avengnerds Compensation Station after I took his 'ghini out for a joy ride. But he changed the locks without telling me. Again."

"...Riveting. As I was say—"

"Couldn't even get into his mansion, and he wasn't returning my calls. Can you believe it, turns out he fucked off to some babushka U.S.S.R. country, Sokovisomething. So I had this genius idea, right? Legally change my name, get access, and have my fun with his sparkly toys. Did you know that Tony isn't his actual first name?"

Candace's lips parted dumbfoundedly. Her posture was inflated and poised enough to suggest that she was about to speak, but it seemed as though the sound was corked. "I...honestly have no idea what to say to you," she finally said.

"I know, crazy, right? Wow, you think you know a guy."

"Not about Tony Stark, you moron. I couldn't care less. I just—want—your _help._ Is that really so much to ask?"

"What do I look like, a private investi—ohhh, right, the plot. Alright, alright," resigned Deadpool, gesturing for her to bring the 'tude down a notch. "So you don't like my established canon character traits. That's cool, I'm getting the straight man vibe from you. This'll work great for our dynamic." Rising from the foldout chair, he passed her and thoughtfully paced.

Candace squinted suspiciously as he walked by. "Since you mention it, now that we're on the subject, just how long have you been a private investigator, again?"

"Two and a half days," replied Deadpool as he paced back to her.

Candace shut her eyes, placed a hand on her hip, and cradled her forehead. "Oh, God," she moaned dismally, mashing her brow.

"Buck up, princess, I know what I'm doing."

"Imagine that." She heard leathery rustling just then. Dropping her hand from her eyes, she found her bizarre, sorry-excuse-for-a-Private-Investigator Private Investigator behind his desk, using it as a flat surface for organizing items he started pulling from the drawers. Fiddling with his belt pouches, he flipped them open and shut as he put away his notebook and pencil, removed what appeared to be an assortment of bullets organized uniformly in their magazine, and then, reaching under the desk's lap, he pulled out two weighty pistols from what must have been hidden holsters underneath.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, just what do you think you're doing?" demanded Candace, holding up her hands to stop him, even though she'd be about as effective as the pull-out method. Although she was far from getting hurt by them, she eyed the guns like Deadpool had just announced he was going to use them to play William Tell on some hapless 'volunteers'.

"What? These?" said Deadpool, angling one for better visual. "These are insurance, netherworld girl. Never know when things can get a little dicey. Or when you need tools of interrogation. Or if you need to really reach that itch you just can't scratch." Finger still curled over the trigger, he reached around and rubbed the barrel enthusiastically between his shoulder blades. "Aw, yeah, that's the stuff."

"Are you crazy?!"

"No, I'm Deadpool. We've been through this."

Candace circled behind him and attempted to catch his wrist in order to take the gun away, but as expected, she went right through him. "That's not a toy, don't do that!" she urged, still swiping despite her uselessness.

Deadpool brought it back in front and twirled the weapon casually like a baton until it was a blur. "Relax, ghostbabe, I'm a profession—whoops." He stooped quickly to pick the fallen pistol back up. "—a professional."

Chances were better of convincing Candace that clouds were cotton candy, and taxes were made obsolete.

"So, you still remember where you live?" Deadpool asked, strapping the guns to various catches and holsters snaking along his costume.

"Yes," Candace answered, none too trustful with the events unfolding. Her beady eyes were suspiciously roving over every single move Deadpool made. "Why?"

"We're gonna take a little field trip over to your house. Oooh, won't that be fun?"

"Wait, what? I hope you're not suggesting we break into my parent's house!"

"What would you have me do then, just saunter up to the front door while wearing this and tell them I'm there to mow the grass? _Clues_ , ghostbabe. Every detective's gotta rack up them clue points."

"Would it kill you to dress a little less conspicuously, then?"

"Would it kill you to bug off and leave me alone forever?" He noted her mistrustful expression. "Listen, if it makes you feel any better, if all goes without a catch, I won't be using these, your family won't even know I'm there. We'll be there under the cover of night, they'll be safe and snug, asleep in their beds, with visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads."

Candace's mouth tightened. As much as she didn't want to admit it, Deadpool really was her only hope. Previous experience had shown her how very few, if any, people were capable of seeing and hearing her.

"That's what I thought. Now come on, money—I mean, honey. Detective Deadpool's on the case!"

"...Could you at least leave behind the guns?"

"And risk looking a little less sexy? Are you even listening to yourself? What if girls are watching?"

"I'm a girl, and, to be honest, I'm not all that impressed."

Deadpool was busy shoving in a last, fresh clip. "I mean fuckable ones."

Candace's appalled expression arrived right on cue, and what's more, it went ignored.

"See, I have something called style, ghostbabe," explained Deadpool. Tucking his trusty weapon into a holster by his side and patting it lovingly, he looked Candace over from top to bottom, especially scrutinizing of her track pants. "'Course, I wouldn't expect you to know what that means," he added in a tone that could outbitch Regina George.

* * *

 **A/N: *stumbles in clumsily* I'm still here, I swear! I won't give you all the usual rhetoric, "Oh, I was just so busy," and so on and so on. Sometimes yes, I was, but I'll tell the truth, I just got so overwhelmed with so many writing projects that I completely shut down creatively. Rather than look at multiple stories and tackle them by switching every once in a while, I just mentally puttered out and worked on none. I know, I'm an ass. But I've refocused on commitments, I'm back and I'm revived!**


	4. Richies Gonna Rich

"What we're doing is _so_ illegal..."

The smell of fresh, dewy grass was alive and lush, much removed from the smoggy air and garbage juice smell perforating every inch of street back in the city. Not that Candace's olfactory senses were at peak level these days, and Wade was usually too jaded to take notice. Thanks to timed sprinklers that recently deactivated, each lawn in the neighborhood glittered like Ke$ha had just orchestrated a mass orgy in the immediate area.

Mansion after mansion lined the peaceful street. The neighborhood was obviously crazy rich, but not Tony Stark "C-Note Toilet Paper" crazy rich, therefore, no gates or fences imprisoned the estates, nor was it necessary to hire a sherpa in order to reach the front door. The houses were all out in the open, lit to be admired, and standing proud as sprawling, three-floor Fuck You's to minimum wage. No security at all.

Except for the security guard stationed in his little Wi-Fi accessible hut at the community's gated entrance, out cold with a pulsing, purple goose egg on his forehead.

Potentially he could have been napping peacefully had Deadpool executed the Vulcan nerve pinch correctly the first three times.

The land wasn't especially hilly, thus the driveways—some winding, some split in two—were close to level with the street.

Shrouded by the cover of night, and shaded conveniently by an ornamental maple tree, Deadpool peered through his binoculars, shielded stealthily by a hedge bordering his client's spacious property.

Even Candace's whining didn't break through, he couldn't see past the dollar signs. Chica Muerte really was loaded! He could even tolerate her frigid bitchery the more zeroes he tacked on to his payment.

The both of them had been camping out and staking the house for the better part of a half hour. Deadpool positioned himself low to the ground, crouching behind the immaculately trimmed hedge. Candace never had to take position, due to her inability to be seen. By most, anyway, as evidenced by her companion. Out of what must have been human habit, though, she bent at the waist like she was part of something secret, leaning her hands on her knees in order to be closer to Deadpool's level.

Candace was in the middle of nagging about something else ("...how useful are you going to be to me when you're drowning in litigation and court dates?") until Deadpool finally lowered his binoculars. "Do you wanna solve your murder most foul, or not?" he said, cutting her off. "This is all part of the process. If we figure out your last known wherabouts, we find out if you were with someone at the time. That's when we get to the interrogating."

 _[Ooh, my favorite part! So much room for creativity...]_

"And just where do you think we're going to find clues?" Candace asked.

"Doi, we ransack your room, genius! Listen, I happen to know a thing or two about the women folk," he boasted, "you're all not that hard to figure out when you keep a diary."

"Number one, how would you know whether or not I kept a diary, and number two, reading a woman's innermost thoughts is not the same as 'reading' her."

"...Is this another one of those chick riddles? Will this be on the test later? Like those literal slash figurative things you all seem to love?"

"Goddamn, just how out of touch are you?"

"Maybe if you weren't so _krrch_ ," he said, making a slicing motion across his throat with his finger, "touching wouldn't be a problem..."

An ugly sneer lined Candace's mouth. "Ew. Even if I don't shudder anymore, that's the closest I've ever come since. You're disgusting."

"And ready to mingle! Now spill, girl, what kind of juicy secrets you hidin' in that room, hm? Did you write how Jenny is such a bitch? How Mrs. Jones, is, like, _so_ unfair for giving you homework on the night you're going clubbing with your best girlfriends? Or how ripped Jake on the football team is that one time you snuck into the boys locker room? One of those things oughta kickstart something in that airhead of yours."

"Airhead, _excuse_ me?"

"Tell me I'm wrong," he challenged, twisting to meet her. "As of now o'clock, I'm looking at the traffic light on 9th and Vine right between your eyes."

Candace briefly went cross-eyed on instinct before she realized the futility. Recovering, she redirected her attention to her feet and shifted, as if repositioning would somehow solidify her so that she could deny the accusation. "Not the meaning I meant," she muttered defensively.

"Wax a turd and stick a wick in it all you want, it's still gonna be shit." He turned his back on her and faced the property again. "Now, did you do what I asked?"

Candace's retort appeared to be on standby, but for whatever reason known only to her she chose the wiser option and just grumbled in response, "Yes."

"Report."

"I circled the perimeter. The security cameras have been updated since the last time I was here, but I didn't find any new spots where they could be hiding. There's a blindspot underneath the bay window on the ground floor where you won't trigger the spotlight censor. The cameras don't roll all night, they're only activated by movement. Don't set them off."

"Despite my Yelp reviews, my Mission Impossible skills are pretty decent, you know."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"Lucky for you, you get VIP access front row! The 'splash zone' as I call it," he said, wiggling his brows. Or at least that's what it looked like when the fabric above his eyes shifted up and down. "Just tellin' ya now, you will get wet. In your ghostpanties. Enjoy the show. Let's roll out!" Tossing the binoculars carelessly over his shoulder, Deadpool pointed forward like he was leading a cavalry, and sprung to his feet.

Candace's body language was conveying all the confidence of a piglet. "You know, maybe this isn't such a good idea..."

Deadpool lurched to a stop just before leaping over the hedge. "Don't tell me you're gonna puss out now after everything you put me through," he said, doubling back to their surveillance point.

"There's just got to be a better way of going about this."

"Ghostbabe, give me something to work with here!"

"Can't you just come back in the morning and ask my parents some questions?"

Deadpool clapped his hands to his cheeks Macauley Culkin style. "Why, I never even thought of that," he chirped, kicking up a leg daintily. "Oh, I'm sure that will go over splendidly! Why hello, Mr. and Mrs. Daughterless. Your darling, deceased baby brat seems to be very attached to me lately. Where is she, you say? Why, sir, she is standing right next to me." His presentative motions could make a Price Is Right model weep with pride. "What's that?" Deadpool glanced between Candace and his imaginary client-in-law. "There's nothing there? I can assure you, I see her clear as day. What, you can't hear her, either? Huh, I was pretty certain she wasn't just another voice in my head. You're calling the police?! Excellent idea, perhaps they will send their ghostbusting squad out."

Bringing his performance to a close, Deadpool returned to normal. Or at least normal enough to hold a conversation, because Candace was convinced the man wasn't even sane enough to realize he was insane. "You said it yourself, ghostbabe, I'm too conspicuous," he said.

"And you think breaking and entering is the alternative?!"

"You know what they say, you gotta break a few powder kegs before you can make a bomblette."

"You make bombs?!"

"Figment of speech," brushed off Deadpool.

"Explosives are not something to joke about. And it's 'figure'."

"Who's joking? I list it in my resume under Hobbies all the time. And thanks, you got a nice one, too. Hell yeah, I know how to make bombs!" The _duh_ behind the statement was brazen enough to have slapped someone. He started counting off his fingers. "I make 'em in my kitchen, I make 'em in my shed, I make 'em when I can't sleep, anywhere. I wouldn't recommend visiting bathrooms I use, I make bombs in there, too. And I usually render them out of commission for about an hour or two."

Candace shook her head. "Unbelievable," she said, quietly incredulous, and then held up her hands to stop everything. "Okay, I'm being honest now and I want an honest answer." She paused, letting her words sink in. "Are you completely insane?"

"In the membrane!" Deadpool confirmed happily, cocking his thumb and forefinger into the shape of a gun and digging it into his temple.

 **[Crazy insane, got no brain!]**

Candace's facial expressions weren't always easy to decode, but a dawning realization was noticeably changing her, and it looked a lot like the regret variety. "What did I get myself into," she muttered to no one in particular, shaking her head absently.

Deadpool flopped onto the lawn and rolled onto his stomach, crossing his ankles and spritely swaying them, yanking expensive grass out and making a pile. "Your call, ghostbabe. Either this happens, or I walk. Personally, I'd rather just say the butler did it and call it a day."

Candace circled his body, stepping in front of his tiny grass hill. They weren't done yet. "I just need to know if you ever mean what you say. I may be desperate to get to the bottom of this, but I will not have anybody get hurt. You need to understand that. You _will_ understand that."

Deadpool rolled his eyes blatantly, owning no pretensions of hiding the gesture, and slouched until his shoulder blades popped through his costume and his chin nearly touched base with perfectly manicured grass. "If you need some insurance, oh banshee of little faith, you always got that gross body snatcher trick on your side to keep me from getting out of hand." His head perked up swiftly, like he was struck by a fresh thought. "Unless there's other things you can do with it that you haven't told me about."

Candace frowned. "I'm hoping that doesn't turn into some sort of fetish for you."

"Honey, with enough time and exposure, I could get off to a cactus rub-down in a salt mine, and top it all off with a slice of lime."

An ugly twist slanted Candace's lips. "I'd rather not hear it."

"Suit yourself, sweet shrieks. But it looks like I'm the only one willing to share in this relationship." Planting his palms flat, he effortlessly hopped back to his feet and patted the air around her shoulder pacifyingly. "Don't sweat it, Stay Puft, leave it to the pro."

"Hmph."

"Hey, I showed up, didn't I? Don't I get, like, extra credit for that?"

"That reminds me, since you decided to mention it. How did you manage to get here, anyway?"

"Took a bus, two cabs, and nabbed some punk kid's BMX the rest of the way."

"Really? You had to resort to stealing? That's low of you."

"The kid had it coming. Of the two choices he had, he went off grid and chose Dark Horse. Pussy."

Candace clearly wasn't appeased by the explanation. "I won't even pretend to know what that's supposed to mean, but fine, I'll ignore theft on your growing list if you tell me what took you so long?"

"Relax, I'm not late."

Candace crossed her arms. "The sun set hours ago. I waited all day here for you."

"So I had to make a few stops," said Deadpool, nonchalant.

A rumble interrupted their conversation, causing the both of them to stare at Deadpool's midsection. A feral growl crawled from his stomach and up his throat, until an acidic burp puffed his cheeks.

 **[Rule One about Taco Tuesdays - you never pass up Taco Tuesdays.]**

Candace merely shook her head. Reasoning with him was a course in futility. Left with nothing else, she watched her darkened former home with trepidation and uncertainty.

"Hey," Deadpool said shortly, snapping his fingers in front of her eyes (which was impressive given his gloved hands). "Hey, ghostie, you still with me?"

Candace blinked out of her reverie and looked at him. "Do I have a choice?" she asked sullenly.

"...Is this gonna be on the test, too?"

"Nevermind."

Breathing exercises were out of the question, so Candace took a private moment to psyche herself up in other ways, lacing and unlacing her fingers to shake off the doubt holding her back.

Just as she seemed ready to commit, she just had one more thing left to say, holding her head up high. "Leave your guns here," she commanded.

Deadpool had taken to crouching by the hedge again, watching the house. "Tsh. No way, ghosté."

"If you're worried about them being stolen, they won't, they'll be safe. This community doesn't have crime, and even if they did, no one's going to go rooting around in the bushes just on the off chance something turns up other than roses. Leave them here."

"It's like you don't trust me!"

"I don't."

"But my image is everything. Gotta keep up the brand." He noticed the bearded little lawn decoration puffing on a pipe beside him, guarding a snaking trail of decorative soapstone rocks. "Gnomesayin'?" he said cheekily, nudging the tacky thing with his elbow.

Candace loomed over him, casting a would-be shadow if certain circumstances had been different. "If you hurt my family at all," she intoned slowly, intricately, "just one single hair on their heads, I'll do much worse than just possess you."

Deadpool blinked, staring up at her. Then, admiringly, he tilted his head sideways. "Oh-ho, that's so cute, you actually look like you think you're threatening."

"I'm giving you a choice. Either drop them now, or I'll make you."

Deadpool acknowledged his ceramic friend again. "Oh gnome she didn't!"

"One."

"Can I call my lawyer?"

 **[Does anyone remember Matt Murdock's office hours?]**

"Two." Candace traveled closer, positioning side by side with him.

"I plead the fifth!"

"Three." Candace melded her forearm and fingers into Deadpool's, giving the illusion of them being a very mismatched, three-armed pair of Siamese twins conjoined at the elbow.

Deadpool groaned, rolling his eyes skyward. "Ghostbabe, you're no fun," he said, stamping his foot.

Candace's smiles were so rare that her emerging one almost looked sinister. "I appreciate it," she said, separating their limbs again and stepping away.

That was Deadpool's cue to disrobe. The first layer, at least. Shedding all weaponry, he made sure to make the process as time consuming and complainy as possible. Down went the scabbard on his back that housed his swords. Gone was his belt carrying all sorts of tactical knick-knacks, such as canisters of nerve gas, tear gas, and laughing gas. Away went the sheaths attached to his hips that housed twin combat knives. Two pistols were added to the growing pile at their feet. And finally, the piano wire lacing his boots.

She allowed him to keep the pocket maglite for use later.

"See?" said Candace in a congratulatory tone. "That wasn't so hard."

Deadpool crossed his arms tightly like a fussy toddler. "I feel naked," he grumbled.

 _[And not in the fun way.]_

After shoving all of his equipment toward the roots of the hedge and letting the shadows consume all trace of legally-questionable armament, Candace seemed ready enough to execute the plan.

* * *

 **A/N: Left on a trip to Aruba recently, thus this chapter was some time in the making, but I did work on it while I was there! This chapter was supposed to have much more happen in it, but Candy and Wade's bickering just got the better of me and I kinda went off the rails.**

 **Special thank to jh831 for reminding me to add a "The butler did it" accusation somewhere. Still can't believe I didn't think of that before...**

 **Unsigned reviews I can't personally answer through PM, so I will answer them here.**

 _John_ \- I didn't even think of that! Heh, that would be something if I had any sort of talent to pull it off, but alas, I don't envision this being a crossover, or have any other major marvel characters star in this. Good suggestion, though :D


	5. Stake-Out Fake-Out

The Ohler residence's security system wasn't difficult—just immensely tedious.

Dodging the motion sensors? Elementary. Disabling the alarm? Sesame Street. The two deadbolts? Now that was just paranoid.

How? Simply put, Deadpool merely

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and stuck a wad of gum into the keyhole for good measure.

Silently easing the elaborate, paneled mahogany door shut behind him, Deadpool turned, placed his hands on his hips, and took time to appraise the luxurious interior foyer.

Even in the dark the walls were so starkly hospital-white that they practically gave off light of their own. Art and relics of the Ohler's worldly travels, mostly black, gold, or lesser red to match the interior, broke up the solidity of the blanched walls. There was even a gold tribal mask hanging above a side table just before one ascended a grand staircase curving and hugging the wall.

The ceiling was looking awfully glam. Taking a gander above, he discovered a large, circular chandelier, topped like a multi-tier cake with those pointed bulbs meant to resemble candlelight. The fixture even oozed icing—or ice, more specifically. Crystals draped and dripped from it, laced together by near invisible wire.

To his immediate right was a fancy dining nook, while what must have been some sort of seating area or living room was on his left. The furniture was dominantly white, carved in oak wood frames, and very expensive-looking. Named after some dead French king kind of expensive.

 **[There's no way a human ass has ever sat on any of these.]**

 _[There's no way a human ass has ever lived here!]_

Past the grand staircase, there was an area straight ahead that seemed most likely to be the kitchen, as noted by the glint of a chrome faucet and a teal, digital 12:00 stamp glaring from a microwave. Deadpool didn't have to enter and measure it wall to wall to know it could easily accomodate his entire office.

Deciding to sneak in a little bit of guideless touring, Deadpool went off course and meadered into the open-plan living room. Gozer Jr. hadn't found him yet, no harm in taking a little peeksie.

 **[Hey, hey, watch the scuff marks!]**

Adding just a splash of color to the sitting area was a brightly colored, red and gold paisley carpet, imported straight from Sweatshopistan. Deadpool, mourning the lack of distinctive clacking his weaponry normally made, stepped onto the rug and bounced on his feet, testing the loft. His boots sank the barest of millimeters, but in carpet terms that was pretty much a bouncy castle. Lush!

Beneath the rug? Marble. Just veiny marble installed for flooring, stretching far and wide, creating a brilliantly slick surface primed for a running slide.

 _[Oh, baby. The Risky Business recreations we could have with this place_...]

A light shined behind Deadpool. Candace was materializing through the front door. Her body was offering the short-range silver glow.

"Front door? Really?" deadpanned Deadpool, meeting up with her.

"Force of habit."

Darkness afforded Candace's form amazing contrast and clarity. In other words, she was basically moonlight encapsulated by a human host. Her features were highlighted more than ever, boldened by the lack of light. While there was nothing to be done about her transparency, the denim of her jacket sharpened, as did the pastel purple of her tank top, and a more smoky-gold hue brightened her hair. In sunlight she all but disappeared from view, and not because she meant to, but here in the night, she almost passed as completely human.

"We shouldn't be here too long," she whispered. Her eyes tracked the lofty ceiling and row of doors on the second landing as if she were listening for signs of life from the house.

"You saying we should split up?"

"Shh! No. I don't trust you here alone."

"Why you whispering? Thought you said nobody could hear you?"

" _Shhh!_ You want to wake up the entire neighborhood and get arrested for trespassing?"

Deadpool waved her concern away. "American jail's not so bad. Turkish on the other hand—"

Candace's fingers clawed at face-level like she was itching to strangle him. "Would you _please_ either shut your trap or quiet down?!" Her voice was raising to a stage whisper. "Now listen to me, I want to make this quick. No goofing off, no sight-seeing, and under no circumstances are you to take souvenirs."

Deadpool made a sound, "Eh-", when Candace wedged her fist through his throat in an attempt to cork him. She wasn't successful for obvious reasons, but the dry cold would be enough to shock his vocal chords into brief paralyzation. "Uh-uh, I'm not done. You understand what I'm saying to you? Investigate. Clues. Vamoose. Questions?" She removed her fist from his throat.

Deadpool massaged his neck in order to get the blood flowing again. "Just one," he said. His discomforted wince melted away. Tilting his chin low, he leaned down until only inches separated their noses. "Are you as turned on as I am right now?"

Candace's upper lip curled in repulsion.

"I mean, I'm probably half chub at best. Could be full mast if you actually gave me a reason to like you," he teased, like his offer was an enticement.

"On second thought, you will make way too much noise if you keep talking to me. We'll get this over with faster if we split up."

"I call your bedroom!"

"Shhh!" Candace hissed, making outward slicing motions with her arms, like an irate referee. "No, I'll take a look in the bedrooms."

"Tsh, yeah. Don't strain yourself lifting or anything."

"I'll be way more silent than you could ever be. I'll come get you if I find anything important."

Deadpool crossed his arms. "It's bedroom or nothin', sister."

"Okay, okay," Candace relented quickly, looking like she was struggling to find her inner chi. "We'll compromise. You take the basement, I take first level, then we'll both do the upstairs. Just be professional, alright? Be on the lookout for anything fixed in time, like a movie ticket stub, a credit card statement, just something to track down a time and place that might lead us to what happened to me."

"Hey, hey, hey," Deadpool interrupted, "who's the detective here?"

"Funny, I was just about to ask the same thing."

Deadpool leaned back in false amusement. "Heh! Cute, ghostie. Real cute." Turning and ignoring her, he clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously, sizing up the house's many verging paths. "Alright then, team, Operation Bucket is a go."

"Bucket?"

"Yeah. 'Cause you kicked it hard." Springing into action with a little razzle dazzle of the feet a la Ray Bolger on the yellow brick road, Deadpool had his sights set for the basement stairs just off from the kitchen.

Before he made significant progress, however, Candace lunged wide and cut him off. "And another thing," she said in a tone that signalled Deadpool was about to get lectured. "I have a name. It's Candace. Understand?"

"Sure thing, sugarplasm," he answered, side-stepping her.

She blocked again. "Say it with me. Can. Diss."

"Really? Me, too!"

"One more time," she said firmly, holding up a finger for emphasis. "Candace."

"Ditto."

Candace aggressively jutted that same finger beneath his chin now. "Don't play stupid with me," she threatened, "I know you're smarter than you look. We're not moving from this spot until you say my name properly."

The chin area of Deadpool's mask stretched and elongated southward. "Uh huh," he managed to say through a gaping yawn, "can we wrap this up before I get bored of humouring you and the audience leaves?"

Candace stood her ground, a grim refusal to back off, but at the same time she must have realized, albeit reluctantly, that her partner was right. They were wasting time. She would have sighed in exasperation had it not been for the lack of lungs. "Just go," she said tiredly, waving him off.

Deadpool, ever dutiful, two-finger saluted. "Ten-four, affirmative, ghostbuddy." He toddled off with the spritely trot of a child entering an amusement park. Not Disney World caliber. More like the cheap, annual carnivals that rolled into town every once in a while, operated by high schoolers in need of a summer job.

Candace frowned watching him go, hoping he actually listened. However, time would not be kind to them the longer they stayed. Heavily, she buried her inhibitions and headed for the gloomy kitchen.

He should be fine on his own. On his best behaviour, she thought.

Hopefully.

* * *

 **[Well, no one ever said the Private Eye business was a glamorous one.]**

 _[Whoa, slow down there, Socrates.]_

As Deadpool hopped down the stairs two at a time, clutching the banisters to swing forward, he had some private time to reflect on how he was no longer a yes man now that he was an almost-fledged P.I.—he set his own hours, his own payroll, and answered to nobody.

It sucked!

Under the merc umbrella, contractors usually took care of the paperwork and the nitty-gritty law dodging, leaving Deadpool free to carry out his minimal instructions with as little interference as needed, so long as the contract was fulfilled. For this job, he was required to have some semblance of responsibility and accountability. And why?

 _[Because the plot demands it?]_

 **[A steadier pay-out, dumb ass.]**

 _[That, too.]_

This was only his first case and already it didn't feel like it was worth skipping _Days of Our Lives_ for.

Vaulting over the last five stairs, he landed with cat-like grace onto the plush, pale grey carpeting. Plucking the maglite from his belt, he clicked it on and directed the beam into the void.

"Jaysus!"

Wheeling backward, he clutched his racing heart in pain.

What a _killer_ home theater! His flashlight reflected a frosted white orb against a massive 90 inch flatscreen. The audio system was easy to follow from there and it was even more beautiful than he could handle. He whimpered and covered his mouth. Surround sound consisted of one sound bar under the TV, and another six hefty box speakers pinpointed at select placements, circling the designated area for the most optimal surround.

An overstuffed, dark leather sectional with matching recliners in crescent formation sat before the almighty television.

 _[With cupholders!]_

To hell with taking orders from The Phantom of the Nope-ra!

The recliner sighed. Deadpool's backside practically melted into the fluffy, yielding leather. Needing more, he popped the foot rest, slowly reclined with the chair, and exhaled in pleasure, rolling his fluttering eyes into the back of his head. "Oh, yesss..." he moaned, rubbing the pillowy arm rests sensually.

 **[Um, didn't we have a job to do?]**

"Ugghh," Deadpool groaned. "Quit harshing my buzz, man. When I get therapy one day, you'll be the first to go."

Most reluctantly, he peeled himself off after allowing himself a few precious moments. He kissed his palm and blew. "One day, my love. One day you will be mine..."

There was virtually nothing in the basement that stood out uniquely, other than their shitty taste in movies. He tapped through their bookshelf of DVDs like a catalogue. There Will Be Blood? Citizen Kane? Friggin' _Schindler's List_?! Where in all the farthest reaches of fuckdom was James Cameron's crowning opus in cinematic achievement Titanic? Cinephile wannabes. Wade could rewind that one guy pinwheeling off the propeller over and over again; art immortalized in celluloid.

To make the time pass less annoyingly, he hummed and sang to himself under his breath. "...Take me gnome tonight. Listen, honey, just like Deady sang, this song's from the eightiiies..."

There was nothing going for the basement. Deadpool buried his nose in every nook and cranny, book and afghani (rug), and even the tacky bowling trophy cabinet, but the place was immaculate. Job well done to the Ohler's standards of cleanliness, he had to say. He thought briefly of leaving them a congratulatory note, but his Spanish was weak as shit.

Hopping the basement stair two at a time, he returned to ground level, back to square one. Candace was nowhere to be seen, and she would have been easy to spot, especially in an open foyer as gloomily lit as that one.

 **[No harm in getting a head start, I say.]**

 _[Well, who are we to disagree?]_

Leaving Candace to her own whatever-passed-for-her-heart-these-days desires, Deadpool chipperly loped up the grand staircase. She wanted this done quick, didn't she? She'd find him eventually, anyway.

Now on the landing, there was nowhere to go but to door number one. Turning the shiny, curled, golden handle, Deadpool took a peek inside. "Low flow toilet? Fa-an-cy!"

Next, a linen closet: "Softer than my toilet paper. I'm a changed man. It's only cotton towels for my pucker tunnel from now on."

The row of family photographs lining the wall: "Well, gee, they sure forgot Miss Moneybucks pretty quick. Maybe they finally got some peace and quiet after she quietly peaced."

Statistically speaking, he had to hit a bedroom sometime. Which he did. At lucky Door Number Four, he entered confidently, and then halted dead in his path.

A small child occupied the bed. His hair was a shiny, sandy brown, reflecting the meager illumination with ease. He was a wee little sprout, couldn't have been older than seven.

And there was also the ongoing staredown by which the two of them were currently locked.

If awkward pauses could be cut, this one would be fruitcake.

"Spider-Man?" asked the boy.

And the way he said it was saddled with enough precious hope to fuel ten Christmas miracles, resurrect Tinkerbell, and obliterate an orphan baby penguin's inoperable brain tumor all in one enormous bitchslap of innocence.

Deadpool curled and lifted a leg, bit his fist, and grunted very similarly to the after-party following the last time he sampled Rajeet and Family's All-You-Can-Eat Buffet.

Recovering quickly, he lowered his leg and thought to set his arms akimbo.

"Uh...yeah!" he improvised. "Hey there, bucko, just your friendly neighborhood arachnid mutant...who never returns my best buddy Wade's phone calls but that's okay 'cause Wade forgives me 'cause he's a good guy like that and would never think that I was just trying to avoid him."

 _[Yo, jackass! You wanna get your ass sued?! Pretty sure 'mutant' is copyrighted twenty times over.]_

 **[Whoops, wrong universe.]**

It was hard to concentrate with those two nagging in the attic, leading Deadpool to frown. Wasn't Candy enough? "Yeah," he continued to the kid, "so, just go back to sleep and I'll let Santa know you've been a good boy this year. Cool?"

"Your suit looks different," the little boy noticed. He indicated the orbital sockets over his own eyes. "Over here."

"I know. It's better!" Deadpool pinched the costume's dark patch on his thigh and pulled it for inspection. "Whaddya think, too much black?"

The little boy shrugged neutrally. "It's not the costume that makes the hero," he said. He pointed his own stubby little finger to his chest. "It's what's in here."

 _Aw, shyiet!_ There was a weird feeling in the pit of Wade's stomach, and this time it wasn't the vindaloo pork.

"Thanks, kid," he said through a teeth-clenching grin. The kind you reserve for Thanksgiving when your girlfriend's drunk aunt is getting a little too friendly with another thigh besides the turkey's.

The two of them watched eachother silently.

Deadpool looked side to side, finding nothing of interest to comment on besides a poster over the dresser of some roided baseball player in mid-swing, and a scattering of Lego blocks on the floor, littered like mini landmines. "H'okay," he said finally, "well, Spidey's got some business to take care of. Lots of bad guys to catch and make web mummies out of, you understand."

"Mm-hm." The little boy nodded vigorously to show that he did.

"Great. Yeah. Sooo..." Deadpool jutted his thumbs over his shoulders to the bedroom door behind him, taking tentative steps backward. "I'm gonna go now."

"Okay. Thank you for keeping New York safe every night, Spider-Man. You're my hero."

Deadpool's squeal slipped. Quickly, he brought a fist to his mouth to cover it. This kid's precociousness was death!

Recovering, he redirected the gesture into a salute. "Appreciate it, kid," he said, making certain his tone conveyed the words sincerely. The way a hero would. "But hey, come on, fist bump for the road." Curling his knuckles, he walked to the bed and waited for the kid to tap back. "There ya go. End it with fireworks now, just like this— _pchew!_ Right on. Okay, nighty night, now, sleep tight. Say your prayers. Drink your Ovaltine."

Tugging up the blankets, he laid them over the kid, letting them drop more than tuck. Backing up again, holding out his hands as if the kid were a puppy about to spring out of the bed and follow, he managed to reach the door with no complications.

"Good," Deadpool said. "Alright. See ya around." Then around the frame and he was out of sight.

He popped in a second later. "And don't tell your folks about any of this, alright?"

The boy nodded vigorously.

"Cool." Deadpool disappeared again, flashing a thumbs up in farewell on the way out.

In the safety of the hallway, Deadpool pressed his back to the wall and silently puffed his cheeks in relief.

He crouched to soften his already-carpet-absorbed footsteps, just to keep up the game of ultra stealth superheroing for the kid's sake in case the little tyke was still listening. Upon returning to the office tonight, he made a mental note to practice his Spidermanisms. And for Peter to send a letter.

Coast clear, Deadpool snuck into the next room. At a glance it was obviously another generously-sized bedroom.

But the crisply made, snow-white bed was empty. Whoever it belonged to wasn't here. In all likelihood, he concluded that this must have been Candace's former room.

Free to stand tall now that there were no other munchkins honing in on him with their beady little tattle-tale eyes, Deadpool centered himself in the room, taking inventory. One hand on hip, he tapped his chin ponderingly over his options.

"Hmm. Now where would I hide a tacky, 99-cent store padlock journal containing all of my soul-releasing, angst-dripping, deepest, most desperate desires and secrets of my heart?"

 _[Panty drawer?]_

"Panty drawer."

A large mahogany bureau stood against the wall beside the window. With moonlight aiding his noble crusade, Deadpool slid drawers out, snapping them shut when he met denim or flannel.

Nope.

Nope.

Not there.

Uh-uh.

Negative.

Eureka!

Nestled within the top right drawer, he removed a rather scanty red thong, stretching it wide. "Oh-ho. Found the butt floss..."

 _[Jackpot!]_

 **[Focus, gentlemen. We're on a case.]**

Deadpool slumped. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said heavily, frowning. Remember the money. The good thing about underwear was that it was so light and delicate as to be easily pushed aside. Sure enough, his initial intuition was correct. There, in the bottom right corner, buried under frilly lace, spandex shorts, and blood-stained granny panties, lied a bubblegum pink, moleskin notebook, closed with a flimsy snap button.

Looking over his shoulder, Deadpool surveyed the empty room, like Candace's eyes were suddenly everywhere. "Well, ghosty won't mind if I read ahead a little."

 **[Yes, she will. You know she will.]**

 _[Pipe down, narc! Flip to the good stuff!]_

 **[Something tells me she won't be into spoilers...]**

"Hey, I am the detective here. Not like she can read it herself without my help anyway. And it _is_ pretty long. Might as well be able to give her the cliff notes version..."

Popping off the 'impenetrable' security feature, Deadpool pressed his thumb down and wasted no time ticking through the pages like a flipbook. The diary was about three quarters full and brimming with ink on every used page. "Oh yeah," he said anticipatively. "I hope you're all ready."

 _[READ, GODDAMMIT. What's a guy gotta do to get some blackmail material around here?]_

Something told Deadpool that maybe it would be more diligent to just flip to the final entry and allow Candace what little privacy she still had remaining from her mortal life. Probably from his reasonable side, he wasn't sure, it was hard to hear over his imagination.

"Oh," he said after reading a particularly juicy passage, leaning closer to the pages as though it could transport him to the time and place. "This is getting kinda hot..."

 _[Told ya!]_

With the diary still open using one hand, Deadpool swept the room for any other clues, but still stayed glued to the book like a housewife reading the latest smash-hit bodice-ripper. Half-assed, but thorough, he concluded that nothing was hidden in the stuffed animal piles behind the headboard—what was she, ten?

There was no purse left behind, no trinkets left in the pockets of her clothes in the closet, and no photos pinned to the corkboard beside her bed, only a report card with almost all Straight A's _[Egomaniac much? How long has this been here?]_ and a smattering of colorful pushpins ready to be put to use someday.

There was also a scribbler on a glass desk against the wall, but it was blank. There was a laptop, too, but even after booting it up, all it contained were word documents of essays involving history and political science _[Just when I thought she couldn't get anymore square...]_. Not even a single folder was purposely mistitled to throw off suspicions of secret porn stashes. The place was clean.

Deadpool had done all he could do there, and Candace still hadn't shown up to meet him.

Securing the diary safe into his waist band for further late-night study back at the office, he backed out of the room, looking it over one more time, just in case he had missed anything. The long shaft of moonlight spilling in from the window draped over the fluffy, white comforter on her bed like a second blanket, and he almost felt pity for how empty it looked.

Almost.

That shrewish nagging wasn't easy to dig out of the ears.

He closed the door carefully behind him. The very last door at the end of the hall must be Mama and Papa Ohler's, then. He couldn't imagine anything useful being in there. Plus, that room in particular was the greatest risk of all of them. Best to send Candace in there instead as the canary.

Carefully tiptoeing past Candace's little brother's bedroom again to reach the stairs, Deadpool stopped when he heard a soft moan from within. Peering inside, he saw that the little boy had indeed fallen asleep, but was having a rather fitful time, brows furrowed, tossing and turning.

"Ugh," Deadpool groaned faintly, slumping his head back and staring frustratingly at the ceiling.

* * *

Candace wasn't exactly sure what she expected to find in the pantry, but she would leave no stone unturned, no potato bin unexamined. She felt stupid for having thought that a recyclable bin could house some sort of timestamp and subsequent trail that would bring clarity to her demise, but desperation had a way of making people irrational. Even deceased ones.

Done with the pantry, Candace had officially combed every corner of the first floor and found nothing of use to her. Returning to the foyer, that clod of a private investigator was nowhere to be seen, just as she expected. Even in the semi-darkness he wouldn't have been hard to spot. He would have stood out like a wine stain on a white tablecloth.

 _Ergh, if he went upstairs without me..._ she thought in frustration.

Floating up to the second landing, she was about to begin her search when the man in question stepped out from the fourth door down and quietly, carefully closed the door behind him, letting it hit the frame with nary a sound.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, rushing to him.

Deadpool acknowledged her with little fanfare. "Hey, don't get all up in my face, alright, I just went to get your little brother a glass of water."

"Little brother?" Candace paused, stern expression faltering. Her face betrayed her confusion. "But...I'm an only child."

"...Then who—"

That was when something tinny started clattering in the next bedroom after. The empty one. A long squeak mewled from somewhere in it. From a window.

Candace and Deadpool stiffened. There was a interlude of silence for a while, and then, a teenage girl, dressed rather Cyndi Lauper-ish for such swanky digs, emerged from the room.

The girl didn't take long to spot what was amiss in her house. She stopped, stunned frozen, parallel to her home invader(s) like they'd met for a showdown at high noon. Her eyes widened and her purse dropped from her fingers, landing with a muffled _thump_.

"Er, heh heh." Deadpool meekly raised a hand and twiddled his fingers. "Hey there."

The pitch of the girl's shriek was so inhuman that he knew if he were wearing glasses he'd be seeing twenty of her.

 _[CHEESE IT!]_

"Oh, look at the time, it's about that time, gotta go!" Deadpool two-finger saluted in farewell, but the girl had already turned and sprinted to the final door at the end of the hall, slapping her palm against it in wild, unhinged fervor. "Mom! Dad!"

"Oh shit..." His arm throbbed with spurts of cold.

"What are you waiting for?!" shouted Candace, who had been attempting to push him. "Go!"

"On it!"

Stairs? Stairs were a myth. Deadpool grabbed the wooden banister at his side, launched himself over, and landed in a superhero crouch on the marble tiles below. "Agh. My knees..."

No sooner was he down than he was back up, practically hitting the ground running, and he made a mad dash for the entrance.

"Honey, what's wrong, what happened?!" squealed a distant woman's voice upstairs.

Candace suddenly appeared right beside him, keeping pace.

"I take it that's not your sister, either?" Deadpool said.

Candace glanced over her shoulder at the commotion, looking betrayed. Her main concern now, however, was getting Deadpool out of the house. She wouldn't be the one having to explain anything downtown.

Deadpool threw open the front door and tore across the lawn, kicking up grass blades behind him. The hedges were in sight. Floodlights burst to life, illuminating the property. Reaching the relative safety of the hedges, he swandived over them, then tucked and rolled, stopping on a crouch. He swiftly looked over his shoulder at the base of the shrubs. "Oh, my poor babies. Daddy missed you so much."

Slipping on and attaching his weaponry and gear once more, like every piece was programmed to an exact spot on his body, he snatched a souvenir for the road and he took off like Usain Bolt with a bullet train on his tail. He didn't bother making sure Candace was following or not.

He wouldn't have if she were alive, either.

Deadpool cleared the neighborhood gates and kept running until he was a couple blocks removed from any fancy estate. No hounds were on his heels, and no sirens disturbed the night. So that meant total and complete success.

Finding some bushes to crawl behind in a peaceful park that was thankfully abandoned due to the hour, Deadpool fell to the ground panting, splayed out and facing the sky. His view of the stars would have been particularly enchanting had the sky not been partially blocked by a streetlamp glaring down at him. "Phew!" he sighed.

 _[Shit, we could have totally broken our FitBit high score if we didn't leave it at the office.]_

Deadpool wasn't even able to catch his breath before Candace leaned over him, blocking the streetlamp. For once, she didn't look pissed off. Rather, she looked quite apprehensive. "If...if that's not my parents house anymore," she said, "I'm in trouble."

" _You're_ in trouble?!" Deadpool went through her when he sat up, so she backed up. "I just might be the new inductee of the Sex Offender Registry after this!" He plucked the diary from his belt and quickly discarded it over his shoulder.

 _[Yeah! We got standards!]_

Candace got up and immediately started pacing, ignoring him. "That wasn't my family! I-I can't believe they moved and I didn't even know." She actually sounded hurt.

"The nerve! Can't believe they didn't even tell you, but I hear the roaming charges from the other side are killer."

Candace was now pacing furiously, gesturing her hands in aimless fashion. "There's gotta be something we can do. We need to look up real estate records, find out where they moved to."

Deadpool slumped and then dropped heavily back onto the ground, chest pumping. "Oh, good, that sounds very non-physical and effortless."

"Daddy had a another house in the Bahamas, though. They could be there. Am I even allowed to travel between continents? I mean, I've never tried, but that was because I never had to..."

Deadpool raised an indignant finger. "I resent the idea of having to pay for a plane ticket on my own dime." His arm flopped over his head.

"They could still be in the state, too, though."

"Yo! What are you paying me for? To just sit here and look pretty?" Deadpool lifted his head, watching her completely tune him out.

 **[Think she'll even notice if we just left?]**

Suddenly, Candace halted. Either she was looking at something in the distance that Deadpool couldn't see from his vantage, or she was staring into the void and finally seeing the light (oh please, God, please...)

"Or," Candace said, dashing Deadpool's hopes, "maybe we don't have to waste time searching for my parents. _She_ could know more about what happened."

"What?"

Finally acknowledging that he still existed, Candace pointed over the bushes. "Look," was all she said.

Deadpool raised himself into a sitting position and followed where she indicated. There was an oak. A park bench. Another oak. Lots of grass. And a black, portable billboard with neon yellow lettering, advertising an evening charity gala scheduled in two days, sponsored by a Mr. Dyson Horne.

"And...is this supposed to mean anything to me?" he inquired.

"Maybe not to you. But Mr. Horne's daughter happens to be my best friend."

* * *

 **A/N: I really am an ass. I'm still here, I promise! Please direct all complaints about my long absence to the Review section provided, or take advantage of our fabulous Private Messaging system. Thank you.**


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